"Three… two… one…" Fractal's voice was calm—too calm. She punctuated the count with a wink. "Go!"

Her shout cracked like a starting pistol, but something else changed first.

All the grasses outside the sparring ring froze. The air stopped moving. Even the dust motes suspended themselves mid-fall.

The wind didn't just die. It obeyed her.

Cordelia hadn't lifted a finger. She simply stood there, eyes lidded, a calm expression resting on her features as if she were about to recite poetry, not engage in combat.

Reacting instantly, I flicked my wrist. A page whipped free from the scroll at my hip, folding mid-flight with practiced precision. It spun toward her—a small, square blade of reinforced paper, sharp enough to split stone, rotating fast enough to blur into a disk.

Cordelia didn't even blink.

Then her dress bloomed.

Hundreds of flowers unfurled from her gown like a time-lapsed forest. Roses, lilies, bluebells, things I didn't recognize. All vibrant. All alive.

And then came the vines.

Thousands of them exploded outward from beneath her hem, weaving into a wall in front of her—not crude, not panicked, but orchestrated. Every strand moved with grace, an entire network of thorned tendrils arranged in perfect interlocking patterns.

The paper blade met the first barrier of vines—and stopped. Not pierced. Not deflected. It was simply absorbed, as if the wall had known the angle of impact before it landed.

The vines closed around the paper like a mother folding away a dangerous toy.

Each flower that bloomed along her latticework shimmered with its own logic, its own rhythm. None of them were accidental. The air carried their scent, delicate and heavy. I could feel something tingling along the edges of my consciousness. Not a physical threat. A mental one.

It wasn't just a wall. It was a gallery. A tapestry of living memory, every blossom a thought, every vine a connection. Each flower was coated in thorns—not to repel, but to warn.

You are not meant to trespass here.

Cordelia still hadn't moved. She tilted her head the smallest degree.

"I was hoping you'd try something clever," she said softly, almost disappointed. "But a blade? That's not like you."

"I was testing spacing," I said, already unfolding the next sheet of paper behind me. Five tiny shapes fluttered out—cranes and locusts, hummingbird silhouettes, origami insects all darting into formation.

"I know," she replied, voice touched with amusement. "That's the problem."

And the vines surged.

Not as a wave, not chaotically. They coiled forward with the terrifying elegance of something practiced—rehearsed. The ground beneath them remained untouched, like they respected the sanctity of the soil even while preparing to dismantle me.

I moved.

The five origami insects I'd launched came to life with a silent snap—paper birds and bugs flitting into evasive flight paths, their inked wings catching the faint light.

The locust dove first, skimming just above the floor before detaching into twenty smaller fragments, each one whirling toward Cordelia's flanks. The cranes split left and right, laying down interference patterns in mid-air, scattering tiny feathers like mines. My hummingbirds, nearly invisible, zipped into a mirrored V formation—angled for precision strikes at her blind spot.

Still, she did not move her feet.

Instead, her left hand gently lifted. A flower at her hip—a violet black anemone—shivered, and every vine on the field reacted.

Each insect—one by one—was neutralized.

The locust fragments never reached her. A carpet of blooming tulips rose beneath them, swallowing their papery forms into a bed of sticky nectar. The cranes exploded on contact with a fan of nightshade-covered branches that moved faster than they had any right to. One hummingbird struck a thorn and detonated in a puff of folded petals.

The second veered, nearly piercing her shoulder—

—only to crumple mid-flight. Not from impact. From doubt. Its paper wilted. The foldwork collapsed. I staggered back, eyes wide.

Cordelia lowered her hand. Her vines pulsed, and her eyes met mine fully for the first time.

"You're still fighting like a soloist," she murmured. "Still using space like it belongs to you."

"I thought you hated mind-reading metaphors," I spat.

"I do." She smiled faintly. "Which is why I've learned to plant suggestions instead. More civilized."

Then the pressure dropped.

A wave of psychic weight crashed through the air—like a storm made of memory. I could feel it trying to root itself inside me, not forcefully, but seductively. Cordelia wasn't trying to break my mind—she was trying to convince it. Her vines were creeping along the edges of my aura, asking if they could enter.

"No," I growled, raising my arms—and released a full scroll.

Dozens of sheets burst outward, whirling into defensive forms. Folded birds, snakes, foxes—all of them burning with golden ink. They dove between the vines and my aura, slashing and writhing, forming a perimeter of desperate resistance.

My fingers blurred through another seal—spitting out a set of decoys.

One of the foxes darted toward Cordelia's position and exploded, not with fire, but with an origami storm—a shrapnel burst of paper leaves, each one sharp as razors.

They tore into the outer layer of vines—and for the first time, I saw her react.

She stepped back.

Only once.

But even that single step sent a thrill of satisfaction through me—before it was smothered by another floral onslaught. The entire field grew. The vines weren't just reacting anymore—they were spreading like wildfire across soil, walls, even the ceiling of the sparring chamber.

And then I realized she was doing it on purpose. Not for defense. She was tilting the battlefield.

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The flowers started releasing pollen.

I staggered, choking. The scent wasn't just rich—it was invasive. Thoughts began to slow. Paper shapes stuttered in midair. My next set of folds came out crooked. I couldn't concentrate.

Cordelia stepped through the wall of vines now. Graceful. Elegant.

Her voice came soft, pitying. "You should've started by retreating. You had the best chance then. Now, you'll just forget why you were even fighting."

I reached for another sheet—

—and the vines caught my wrist.

I felt her in my mind.

Saw images.

A chair in a house I barely remembered. My sister's face. The inside of Danatallion's Halls. Vanitas smirking, standing above me in the library with that damned peacock-colored cloak.

Cordelia's voice behind the memory: "Do you really want to fight me, Alexander? You know you don't have to."

She wasn't mocking me.

She meant it.

I clenched my fist—and burned the memory.

A pulse of white fire tore through the vines, through the hallucination. I unleashed the core sheet I'd been saving—an origami mantis, wrapped in sealing glyphs—and hurled it at her.

It split into six shards midair.

Cordelia's smile dropped. Her hand flicked.

The vines rose to intercept but the shards veered past her and buried into the ground.

For a moment, nothing.

Then all six points activated, and a binding grid of sharpened script erupted from the seals. Thin lines of energy carved through her vines, locking her in place like an insect caught mid-flight.

She blinked.

"You trapped the field?"

I nodded, swaying on my feet. "Not everything has to be head-on. You didn't bother to read the runes on that piece of paper I threw at the beginning. I decided the only way to defeat you, was to do what you actually did to me. I implanted the idea that it was just a blade in your head. It was actually an origami hive I was working on. Ants are hard…""

She chuckled softly. "You're bleeding from your nose."

I wiped it off with the back of my wrist. "Still standing."

"Barely."

"I'll take it."

And with that, she finally lifted her arms—palms open—and stepped out of the sparring zone.

"I concede," she said, not unkindly.

I exhaled. Nearly collapsed.

Fractal was already moving to catch me, her hands glowing faintly with silver light.

"That," she said, eyes wide, "was incredible. You still should have lost but…"

"I did lose," I whispered. "She let me survive. There's a difference."

"Cordelia, how is he?" V called out, already rolling his shoulders like he was ready to fight next. "Think we can move on to our duels? Or does he need rest?"

"Rest," Cordelia said.

"Rest," I echoed at the exact same time.

Cordelia turned to me slowly, one brow arching in what might have been surprise—or concern. Her eyes softened, flickering briefly over my posture, the slight tremble in my fingers, the blood on my upper lip I hadn't bothered to wipe off again. I wasn't the only one noticing the drain. But her voice held no judgment when she spoke.

"You don't usually admit that."

"Yeah, well…" I waved one hand weakly in the air, trying to summon another sheet of paper from my satchel. Nothing came. I groaned. "So remember that bit where I said making the ants is hard?"

"Vaguely," Fractal replied, stepping beside me and kneeling, looking concerned—but also vaguely amused. She still had grass stains on her knees from our earlier bout. "You were kind of gloating when you said it."

"Yeah, well. I have, like… four left." I blinked up at her. "No. Three. Wait... two…"

I didn't finish the sentence.

My body slumped backward and I collapsed into the grass like a puppet with its strings cut. The warmth of the field felt like heaven. My entire body pulsed with the ache of overexerted aura, torn concentration, and drained focus. It didn't even hurt—it just felt heavy. Even the shadows behind my eyes had weight now. Blackness began rolling into the edges of my vision like soft ink bleeding into parchment.

"I think he's…" Fractal began.

"Gone," Cordelia said, already kneeling beside me, placing two fingers gently on my wrist. "He's not unconscious, just spent. Don't push it. Pushing his mental reserve this far, especially after our duel? It's impressive he lasted this long."

"I would've lasted longer," I mumbled.

"You're lying flat on your back in the middle of a training field, Alexander."

"I still would've." I coughed weakly. "Just… needed more ink."

V chuckled and sat down cross-legged beside me, fiddling with something from his pouch—probably one of his explosives, knowing him. "You know, if we wanted to take him out for good, all we really had to do was wait."

"Ten," Cordelia called, "go get some water and something salty. He'll need it when he wakes up."

Ten was already gone before she finished the sentence, her chains clinking softly in rhythm as she jogged off.

Fractal sat beside me, resting her arms on her knees. "You did good, Alex."

I didn't respond. Not because I didn't want to—but because the blackness had finally won. It wasn't a bad kind of sleep. It was the kind that felt like permission. Like the world had finally stopped demanding something from me, and I was allowed—just for a moment—to rest.

Somewhere in the quiet, just before I slipped completely under, I felt a hand—Fractal's, I think—adjust the edge of my coat to keep the sun off my face.

And then there was nothing but the warm hush of the field.

***

The countryside rolled on forever. Hills. Grass. Clouds. Sheep. Repeat.

I bounced in the back of the rickety wagon, arms crossed, trying not to look like I regretted every single decision that led me to this moment. The driver whistled something tuneless and possibly cursed, reins held like a child grasping thread, and his jaw worked on something rubbery and pungent that probably wasn't legal this far south of Bast.

If this was supposed to be a prestigious post, someone forgot to tell the land.

Another bump. Another groan from the wheels. I shifted my weight and adjusted the strap of my armor out of instinct. The captain's insignia on my cloak fluttered in the breeze—completely useless out here. No soldiers to salute me. No city gates. No stone walls. Just grass. And sheep. Hundreds of the bloody things, dotting the hills like poorly thought-out metaphors.

"So this is it?" I asked the driver.

"Yessirree, Wallace. The Lady of the Grail herself asked for you—said the boy was owed a favor. Something about needing real military oversight. Rumor was he's considering hiring mercs."

Fantastic. A teenage noble playing commander. Gold in his hands, fire in his chest, no idea how hard his men will break when things go sideways.

"Tell me about this Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr, then," I muttered.

"Goes by Alexander Duarte, mostly. Seventeen. They say he got out of Danatallion's Halls alive—which, you know, not a lot of folks can brag about. Already made ripples in Marr, turned the heads of two duchies, and got his hands dirty in Myne. Supposedly saved an abbess and rerouted a relief caravan with just a squad."

So not soft, then. Maybe not a pampered noble after all.

Still didn't explain the sheep.

"And my assignment? Duration?" I asked, watching a hill roll by with the enthusiasm of a dying candle.

Driver sucked his teeth. "Indefinite, sir. The last two captains turned it down. Said it wasn't their kind of war. Not enough 'action.'"

I could already see why. Not a single structure taller than two stories, no fortress walls, no training grounds. The estate was visible now in the distance—white stone perched like a wedding cake on a hill, framed by pastureland and long stretches of low fencing. No guard towers, no war banners, no signal torches.

I leaned forward. "Are those… sheep fences?"

The driver grinned like a man who got to deliver the punchline every day. "Sheep perimeter. He calls it tactical livestock zoning. Swears by it."

I didn't answer.

A moment passed. One of the sheep by the roadside met my eyes. I swear to the Depths, it winked.

I rubbed my temples.

The wagon came to a slow, creaking halt just short of the manor's main path. A page trotted up, eyes wide, arms full of maps and a clipboard.

"Captain Wallace?" he chirped.

I stepped down. My boots hit dry grass. I looked around, took in the endless green, the endless sky, and the absolute vacuum of civilization.

"I've been to battlefields," I muttered. "But this… this is where dreams go to retire."

The sheep bleated, unbothered.

Oh well. Might as well see the new lord himself.

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